


Bunny Slopes and Bombers

by circ_bamboo



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Skiing, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-21 11:38:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/597288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/circ_bamboo/pseuds/circ_bamboo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint and Natasha get ordered to go on vacation, and decide to go skiing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bunny Slopes and Bombers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alafaye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alafaye/gifts).



> For the avengers_xchng fic exchange, a gift for alafaye. Thanks to feels_like_fire for beta work. Any mistakes are all mine. The best line in the story I took directly from a prompt.

Natasha flipped the cell phone closed and threw it against the nearest wall, apparently pulling her strength at the last minute because Clint didn’t hear it crack. She swore in three different languages, and ended with, “We don’t have a next assignment.”

“We don’t?” he asked. He lay sprawled across her bed, playing Seven Little Words on his phone. _CA NAS TA_ , a seven-letter word for a card game. He looked up and added, “Well, I mean, that’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Why not?” CL UEL ESS, an eight-letter word for uninformed.

“We’ve been ordered to go on _vacation_.” She spat out the word like an insult.

“Wait--vacation?” DO RI AN, a six-letter type of column.

“Vacation,” Natasha said. “As in, we can’t stay in New York.”

Clint looked up, and she did, indeed, look as mutinous as she sounded. He laughed. “Oh, no, forced vacation time from our very dangerous, high-energy jobs. However will we survive?” EB ELS KIV ER, ten-letter word for Danish breakfast food--and there was his smiley face. He exited out of the game, looked out the window, where it had just started to snow, and said, “I have an idea.”

“Let's not.” Natasha pursed her lips and flipped open her computer.

“You haven't heard what it is yet.”

“I don't need to.”

Well, that much was true. Still . . . “Please?”

“Depends. What is it?” She tapped away at the keyboard.

Obviously she wasn’t actually paying attention to him, or she never would have said that. Oh well. He’d take it. “Let's go skiing.”

She turned to look at him, frowning. “Do you even know how to ski?”

“Nah, but that’s what they have instructors and stuff for, right?”

She tipped her head to one side. “You know it’s not going to be like _The Spy Who Loved Me_. You’re not going to be allowed to jump off a cliff, and anyway, that cliff is in a national park in Canada somewhere.”

“Aww, why’d you have to ruin my fantasies right away?” he said, intentionally adding a whiny note to his voice. “Do _you_ know how to ski?”

She gave him a dirty look.

Okay, well, ask a stupid question.... “Can we go skiing anyway?”

“I’ll think about it,” she said, shutting the laptop with a click. “Where would we go, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Clint said, “but I bet you I know someone who does.”

* * *

Four hours later, they were on Tony Stark’s private jet, just the two of them, heading for St. Moritz. It had taken a call from Director Fury to keep the rest of the Avengers from joining them, or at least Tony, but he’d handed them the keys to his chalet or whatever it was without a moment of hesitation.

They landed around four PM, local time, and a car took them straight to the chalet; Natasha keyed in a code to a pad located by the door, and JARVIS greeted her. “Hello, Agent Romanoff.”

“Oh, hey, JARVIS, buddy, you’re here too!” Clint said. “Awesome. Can you order us a pizza?”

Natasha gave him a look and headed inside, rolling her suitcase behind her. He followed her.

“I could, Agent Barton,” JARVIS said, “but I think you’ll find the local pizza is not what you’re used to. May I suggest pasta instead?”

“Yeah, sure,” Clint said, but he’d stopped paying attention. “Wow.” The foyer was huge and airy, all polished wood and plaster, leading into a main room with a giant stone fireplace and a pit filled with pillows in front of it. Off to one side was a bank of windows and another cluster of furniture; the back held what looked like a full bar, complete with stools and a mirror behind all the bottles. There wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere, even though Tony’d called to open up the place no more than fourteen hours before.

“JARVIS, which room should we use?” Natasha asked.

“Master Stark has suggested the bedroom in the northeast corner, as it has the best view. The door is the second on the right at the top of the main staircase. It has an attached bathroom, but the sauna is downstairs.”

“Thank you,” she said, and pushed the handle of her suitcase down so she could carry it up the stairs. “Clint? You coming?”

“What? Oh, yeah,” he said, and followed her again.

The bedroom was typical Tony Stark levels of excess, done in chalet-style with more gleaming wood and a peaked ceiling with exposed beams. It was bigger than Clint’s rooms in Stark Tower, but not by much, with a large bed, lots of pillows, and a down-filled comforter. There was an overstuffed couch and a pair of chairs in the corner by a big television, and a desk in the opposite corner. 

He flopped onto the bed and sighed deeply. He really didn’t think he needed a vacation--although Natasha probably did--but if he had to, then he was very happy he was friends with a billionaire.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Natasha said, and he raised his head to look at her.

“I will be right here,” he said, rolling onto his back. “Oh, hey, it does have a nice view.” The chalet overlooked the town, with mountains in the background. “I bet it’s even better at night.”

Nat didn’t answer, and he heard the door click closed.

She wandered out of the bathroom a while later, wrapped in a towel, her hair in wet ringlets around her face. “It’s all yours,” she said, gesturing to the open door.

“Are you saying I stink?”

“No,” she said, drawing the vowel out, “but if you miss even one opportunity to bathe in there, you’re really going to be mad at yourself.”

Clint blinked. “Well, okay.” He stood up and stretched, kicking off his shoes before he padded over to the bathroom.

As usual, she was correct; he stopped dead in the doorway and stared. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

The bedroom was nice, but mostly because of its size and view. Sure, that was probably an original Degas on the wall, and the flat-screen television had a little ‘3D’ sticker in the corner, but it wasn’t as if it were particularly unexpected, the level of luxury.

The bathroom, though, was _palatial_. Marble everywhere; along one wall was a shower stall big enough to fit five people. The tub was clearly a Jacuzzi or some other hot-tub-spa thing, also big enough to fit three people--more, if they were close. There were three sinks, not two, and a wall of mirrors; he saw two heated towel racks, one for the shower and one for the tub, and he could feel that the floor was heated as well.

And this wasn’t even actually the master suite.

“Nat,” he called.

“Hm?”

“Give me five minutes to clean up and then you’d better join me in here.”

He heard her chuckle. “If you’re lucky.”

He was lucky. _Very_ lucky.

* * *

The next morning, bright and early, found Clint at the top of the bunny hill in a bright purple ski suit (why had he trusted Natasha to pick out their gear, he’d never know; nor was he sure why Tony Stark had a purple ski suit in his size) with neon green skis, a yellow ski helmet, and orange-and-black ski poles. He’d added a black balaclava and goggles and his own black gloves. Natasha, of course, had outfitted herself in all black, and somehow managed to look gorgeous and curvy even with all the technical fabrics and padding covering every inch of her.

“It’s not that complicated,” she said. She’d offered to teach him how to ski, which sounded like a disaster waiting to happen, but at least it required less interaction with civilians. “Do this.”

She bent her knees and pointed the tips of the skis a little inward; Clint mirrored her.

“Uncross to go faster, push one toe in to go the opposite direction, push both toes in to stop.”

“That’s it?” Clint said. “So basically, like rollerblading?”

Natasha gave him a _look_ , as if she couldn’t believe he’d say something so declasse, and then said, “Perhaps a little.”

“Okay,” Clint said, grinning. “I can do this. Let’s go.”

“Maybe you should practice a little first,” she said, and then winced, as if she knew it was exactly the wrong thing to say.

Which, of course, it was, and although Clint was entirely aware that while doing something he’d never done before (look, okay, anyone talking about the ‘hills of Iowa’ had apparently never been to the eastern half of the state) was probably not the smartest time to be competitive--and competing with Natasha was silly anyway--he couldn’t help it. “Best way to learn is by doing, Nat, baby,” he said, grinning and ducking her ski pole that came near his side--

\--and inadvertently shifting his weight _just_ the right direction to send him down the hill.

Or, well, down the hill for about twenty wobbly feet, and then into a snowdrift. But at least he didn’t hit the tree. He counted that as a success.

“Okay,” he said, staring at the tips of his skis, somewhere over his head. “It really isn’t like rollerblading.”

Natasha didn’t say anything, but she did send a shower of snow into his face as she stopped beside him. He supposed he deserved it.

* * *

“My ass hurts,” Clint said, five hours later, and this time the whiny note wasn’t intentional. It just . . . happened. “Also my quads, and obliques, and whatever the fuck this is here--” He pointed to the outside of his hip, towards the back.

“Gluteus minimus,” Natasha said absently, and grabbed his elbow. “Watch out; there’s a step here.”

“No steps,” he said. “I’ll just stay here.” He pulled his elbow from her grip and planted his feet where he was.

“No, you won’t,” she said. “You’re going to eat a ridiculous amount of food, drink at least two glasses of water, and then you’re going into the hot tub, or you’re going to stiffen up and you’ll be whining for the rest of the trip.”

“Hey, it’s my vacation, too,” he said with a scoff. He rather suspected he’d be limping tomorrow regardless of whether he was in the hot tub or not.

She dragged him back to their room, almost literally when it came to the stairs, and handed Clint a bottle of water and a couple of painkillers. “Be right back,” she said, and returned a few minutes later with two plates of leftover pasta from last night.

He swallowed the pills, even though it hurt more muscles to raise his arms up enough to drink. “Ugh,” he said. “You’d think that these muscles would be used to work.” He poked his ribs, just below his shoulder blades.

“They should be,” Natasha said.

He heard absolutely no sympathy in her tone, which was just _mean_ , but then again, she hadn’t been the one falling on her ass all morning. Oh, _no_ : she’d only toppled over once, when she’d overbalanced, trying to pull him back up after Mishap Number Five Zillion or something.

“But they aren’t,” she added as she unzipped his ski suit and pushed it down his shoulders, “which just means more work, if you actually want your skiing skills to be useful.”

“That’s okay,” he said quickly, pulling one arm through at a time with a wince he didn’t bother to hide. “I mean, it’s a fun form of recreation and all, but--” He shook his head.

She led him to the couch, where he sat gingerly, ski suit bunched around his waist, and handed him his plate of chicken and penne. Nat had spaghetti carbonara, and she made it disappear as quickly as he did.

When he’d finished, she set the dishes on the desk, ducked into the bathroom quickly, and snapped her fingers at him as she returned. “Stand up,” she said.

“Do I have to?” Clint said, but he was already pushing on the arm of the couch to lever himself up.

She didn’t bother answering, just stripped him the rest of the way out of his ski suit and thermal underwear (and actual underwear) before giving him a light tap in the direction of the bathroom.

He’d gotten about three steps before he heard her hiss, and he turned partway back. “I’m assuming that’s not a comment on how amazing my rear end looks right now?”

“I’m amazed that you sat down at all,” she said, coming up behind him to run careful fingers over his butt. “Did you fall on a rock?”

“A few,” he said. “That bad?”

“You’re going to be sitting funny for a few days.” She nudged him into the bathroom, and he used the mirrors to get a good look.

Ouch. Not good.

“You know, normally when I’m sitting funny, it’s because we busted out the strap-on,” he said, but his heart really wasn’t in the joke, and he knew she could tell.

Somehow he managed to swing one leg over the side of the tub, and then the other, without falling in face-first, although the water felt so good that he thought about just sinking under for a moment. He wasn’t a hundred percent sure he’d be able to surface again, though, so he didn’t, just floated with his elbows propped on a ledge and a jet aimed at a particularly-sore portion of his back. “Oh, Nat,” he said, groaning. “This is perfect. Are you going to join me?”

“Well, yes,” she said, chuckling.

He looked up and saw her standing by the side of the tub, completely nude, her ski suit in a pile next to his. “Oh,” he said. Damn, she was beautiful. Naked or clothed, a redhead or a blonde, moving or still--

Actually--

“You’re sore, too,” he said, watching her climb into the tub.

She shrugged. “It’s been a few years since I’ve been skiing.”

“Yeah, but--” He was pretty sure that if he said he didn’t believe she would get sore from something like skiing, he’d either get laughed at or get hit over the head and probably denied sex for a couple weeks, so instead he said, “Never mind. Can you turn the chromatherapy lights on?”

“You need chromatherapy?” she said, but hit the button on the pad.

“Nah, I just like the pretty colors,” he said, and she laughed.

* * *

Clint would have liked to say that they went for round two (well, three, sort of, or maybe four, depending on how one counted) in the hot tub, but frankly, between the epic bruises on his ass and the sore muscles everywhere from his crown to his toes, it was more of a surprise that he hadn’t just fallen asleep in the water. Natasha dragged him out after a half hour or so and made him touch his toes a few times before she let him sprawl on the bed. She woke him up again after about an hour and made him get up and walk around a bit before she let him sleep again.

It really was a testament to the strength of their partnership that he actually _did_ what she said, with only a modicum of complaining.

He woke up again around eight PM, and yes, the view was better at night; he’d noticed the night before, but he’d been a little too jet-lagged to do more than that. For a moment he thought about waking Nat up to point out how beautiful it was down there, all the buildings lit up, the snow sparkling gently, but she was dozing and he didn’t want to disturb her.

With a suppressed groan, he rolled onto his side to look out the window.

A few minutes later, Nat woke up with a faint noise, and moved to curl up behind him. “What are you looking at?” she asked.

“The view,” he said. “Everything. It’s pretty out there.”

“It is,” she said, breath warm against his ear. “Want to go for a walk?”

“Now?”

“It’ll be good for you.”

Clint looked out the window again for a moment. “Okay.”

* * *

It was an effort to pull on enough clothing to go outside, but once they closed the door behind them and that peculiar stillness that only came with snow fell over them, something in Clint relaxed. He couldn’t have said why, and Lord only knew that there was no reason he should feel quite so _safe_ , but he was thousands of miles away from home, he had an awesome place to stay, and he had Natasha.

They walked quietly for a few minutes and stopped at a crosswalk, standing in the light of the streetlamp to wait for a car to pass. Natasha turned to look at him, but before she could speak, Clint leaned over and kissed her on the lips.

She was smiling as he pulled back, but said, “What was that?”

“Nothing,” he said. It wasn’t _nothing_ , really; it was Clint trying to seal that moment as a memory, a moment that stretched on and warmed him, added to his ever-growing collection of shared moments that he kept treasured in his heart and mind. She’d laugh and call him sentimental if he said that, though, so he just said, “You look cute with snowflakes in your eyelashes.”

Nat did laugh at that, but it was bright and open, and made him smile just to hear it. She hadn’t laughed like that in months. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time _he’d_ really laughed.

Yeah, this vacation was a good idea. He held out a gloved hand; she took it, and they walked on in companionable silence, side by side.


End file.
